


Domestic Days

by rudearrow



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: 90s Throwback, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life, Trans Bucky Barnes, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudearrow/pseuds/rudearrow
Summary: A series of vignettes set in 1999. Bucky has a walkman on his hip, new career responsibilities on his head, and a partner on his side.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 56
Kudos: 49
Collections: Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2020





	1. Jan. 1999

**Author's Note:**

> Fic for MRBB; Artist: Transbucky; Artwork Title: Domestic Days
> 
> Features transmasc Bucky. Author is trans. A goal for this fic was to portray a slice-o-life approach in which Bucky's transness was not a major feature or plot point of the story. I (with the artist's full agreement and support) wanted to portray his identity as a simple trait. 
> 
> CW: After discussing, we decided to use masculine and neutral feminine descriptors for Bucky's bits. I am aware that reading sexual content featuring trans characters using any DFAB or DMAB descriptors can be triggering for some, so please proceed carefully.

“It’s gotta be shoved under here somewhere,” Bucky mutters, shoving dusty boxes of old lecture notes, essays, and stacks of battered jewel cases aside. “I put it on the nightstand last week-”

“You mean the fruit crate we snagged from behind the cornershop?”

“I _mean_ our resourcefully acquired nightstand,” Bucky says acerbically, grunting as he taps his hand blindly across an assortment of papers.

“You’re a brave man, babe. God only knows what’s under there-”

“A-ha!” Bucky shimmies back from underneath the bed, squinting in distaste at the flurry of dust bunnies that follow. “This is why we keep records- I am vindicated!” he says smugly.  
  
“Aw damn,” Clint sighs.

Bucky rakes the unruly hair away from his face and waves the crumpled chore chart in front of Clint’s face insistently. “It is, without a doubt, _your_ turn to do the laundry.”

“Okay. You win and... I fold.”

“Did you just-” 

Clint snickers impishly, blows Bucky an exaggerated kiss, then slings the laundry bag across his back and heads out the door.

Bucky rolls his eyes and heads for the living room. He settles onto the rug in front of the couch, stacking his books and box of flashcards to his left. The NCEES exam was creeping ever closer. July felt like it was just around the corner despite being over half a year away. Between that deadline and his upcoming internship, Bucky’s emotions were like a pendulum lately; swinging from accomplished excitement to outright terror. 

He flips open the box of meticulously written flashcards and blinks in surprise.

A purple origami cat sits atop his well-used note cards. It’s truly tiny, barely bigger than a walnut. Wrinkles in the paper and a tiny coffee stain indicate several attempts were made before Clint had managed to get it right. A heady, warm feeling spreads from Bucky’s gut to his chest. He sets the little cat aside carefully and opens his INDOT manual. The pleasant feeling carries him through the next three hours of studying until Clint returns, bag of still-warm laundry hoisted triumphantly overhead. 

Bucky sets his own poorly folded paper dog next to Clint's aides before sliding into their bed that night. He wraps his arm around Clint's lightly snoring frame and tucks his nose against the other man's nape.

\--


	2. Feb. 1999

“One, two, three- _shoot_!”

“Bullshit, no way!” Clint shouts. “That’s statistically impossible! How do you _always_ win?”

“Statistically _improbable_ ,” Bucky corrects smugly.

Clint stares down at their extended hands with a mutinous glare. “You’re cheating, you have to be,” he says weakly. “Okay, okay, let’s do two out of three.”

“Babe, I am not humoring your shitty ability at rock paper scissors with two out of three.”

“But-”

“How about we just split it?” Bucky says, voice cracking at the edges as he tries not to laugh at Clint’s defeated posture. 

“I don't want your consolation cookie,” Clint says, low and sullen like a pouting toddler. He even looks the part; long body slouched down, arms crossed, and his face pulled into a deep frown. 

“You sure?” Bucky asks. He dangles the snickerdoodle enticingly at Clint. “It’s the last one. We won’t get anymore of Sam’s Spectacular Snickerdoodles until next Palentine’s Day.”

Clint shifts from foot to foot and his face screws up in agonized thought for a long moment.

“Fine, we’ll split the cookie. Just don’t-”

“Remind you the next time you eat the last of the pizza?”

“...yes, that.”

“Mm, I’ll consider it,” Bucky says, grinning.

He kisses Clint then. It tastes rich and buttery, cut through with cinnamon and sugar. 

Clint pulls away after a long moment, his blue eyes shining and a flush high on his wide cheekbones, “That another consolation prize?”

“Never.”

\--


	3. March 1999

A brusque rap sounds against the side of Bucky’s cubicle. He keeps his eyes fixed on the stack of paperwork in front of him and grunts an acknowledgment. It’s probably just Erica.

“Did you get a copy of the zoning permit faxed over?” Erica asked.

Bucky sighs. It’s always Erica. She’d been recently promoted and took middle management far too seriously for Bucky’s sanity 

“Yeah, I sent it Tuesday,” Bucky replies absently. The figures of the latest build cost estimate swim on the page. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, trying to soothe the pinching ache around his eyes. 

Erica shifts closer. There’s a brief pause, then she taps on the corner of his desk lightly, “You feeling okay, Bucky?”

The question prompts Bucky to turn and actually look at his supervisor. Erica, newly minted micro-manager status aside, is a genuinely kind person. Her brown eyes are narrowed at him thoughtfully and her mouth is pinched with concern. Almost as if anticipating his potential attempt at deflection, she adds, “You look pretty terrible.”

Bucky sighs and leans back in his chair, which creaks ominously, “Bad pain day,” he admits.

Erica’s eyes soften and she seems to deliberate for a moment before speaking again. “Do you need the afternoon off?” she asks, almost carefully.

Bucky knows why she’s being so delicate. He doesn’t have the best reputation for accepting concern with grace. A pang of guilt worms its way through his insides. It’s something he’s working on.

He allows a wince to cross his face. “Maybe?” he says, uncertainty coloring his tone. “But I took Monday off last week for an appointment and I don’t wanna be _that_ guy, y’know?”

Erica sighs, but she’s nodding. “Yeah, I get that. I mean, not,” she circles one fine-boned hand around in his direction awkwardly. “I get _your_ \- wow, I am not handling this well, am I?”

Bucky just shakes his head in confirmation, staring at her curiously. “...Not really, no.”

“I just mean, I get what it is to feel like you have to outperform,” Erica says. “I’m a woman- a black woman, no less- in a very male dominated field. And you’re… ah.”

“And I’m the disabled guy.”

Erica gives a little shrug, looking apologetic. “Yeah.”

Honestly, Bucky appreciates her candor. Too many people tiptoe around him and it drives him up the wall. Erica, he admits, probably does get it. Which sucks, but he figures appreciating her position of empathy is the best way to honor the unfortunate reality of that truth.

“You know, maybe there’s a middle ground here,” Erica says thoughtfully. “What do you need?”

Bucky blinks, surprised by the question. What does he need? He’s not sure himself. “Uh, I don’t know?” he says, feeling uncertain. Unbidden, Clint’s rumbling voice echoes in his head. A wave of longing hits him, bowls him over, and leaves him foundering in its surf. He _does_ know. “I need to talk to Clint.”

He doesn’t know what his face reveals at that admission, but it must be significant because Erica just nods and says, “Follow me.”

She leads him to her office, settles him onto the couch by the door, and places the desk phone onto the floor next to him. “If anyone asks for you, I’ll tell them you’re working on filing for me and not to disturb you. I’ll be in the conference room down the hall if you need me,” Erica says kindly. “Take all the time you need.”

She turns off the fluorescents on her way out the door and instantly Bucky feels the nagging, consuming ache of his head ease. He sags against the couch in relief.

His fingers fly across the number pad of the phone console. Bucky could dial this series of numbers in his sleep. The other end rings and he grits his teeth at the sound, waiting. Three rings in there’s the familiar click of the line connecting and Clint’s voice rumbles its way sweetly into Bucky’s ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Bucky says, voice catching a little. 

“Bucky? What’s wrong, baby,” Clint’s voice somehow manages to sharpen and soften with concern simultaneously. Bucky can tell he’s on edge, ready to drop everything depending on what Bucky says next. But he’s also shifted automatically into comfort mode. 

“Nothing,” Bucky starts to say, then pauses. Obviously that’s not true. “Well, not a big something, anyway. Just a bad pain day. Tension headache.”

Clint lets loose a sympathetic crooning sound. Had it been anyone else, Bucky might be defensive in response, but with Clint the sound only sends that wave of longing crashing over him again. “Do you need me to come get you?” Clint asks.

“No, no. It’s okay,” Bucky hastens to say. “You’ve got training at two. I just- needed to hear you.”

“Well if you’re sure…” Clint says, his warm deep voice ticking higher at the end, clearly dubious. “It’s really no problem. I can skip training for one afternoon.”

“Nah, really. Erica’s got me in her office with all the lights off and the blinds closed. It’s already helping.”

“I knew I liked her.”

Bucky snorts, “You like all women who boss you around.”

“That’s absolutely true and I refuse to be ashamed of it,” Clint replies easily. There’s a shuffling sound on the other end and Bucky tilts his head curiously. “Sorry, just getting settled onto the couch on _my_ end.”

Bucky hums an acknowledgement, the sudden press of exhaustion stealing his words.

“What would help, sweetheart?” Clint asks softly. 

Bucky fights through the thick, clinging miasma of fatigue to say, “Just wanna hear your voice.”

“I can do that,” Clint replies, voice ringing with fondness. “I just cracked open that book Kate gave me last week when you called. Want me to start over? I can read it to you.”

“The kid’s book? Sure, why not,” Bucky says. He positions himself so the phone is propped up next to his ear comfortably and closes his eyes. Clint starts reading, his familiar voice a balm for Bucky’s aching body.

“Matthias cut a comical little figure as he wobbled his way along the cloisters, with his large sandals flip-flopping and his tail peeping from beneath the baggy folds of an oversized novice's habit.”

\--


	4. Apr. 1999

It is common knowledge among their circle of friends that Bucky is absolutely weak in the face of any feline creature walking the face of the Earth. He stops to pet each stray cat on campus, carries an endless supply of treats in his backpack, and wells up with longing at every adoption commercial that flickers across their battered television. As a kid, pets weren’t an option for himself or Clint. He knows his boyfriend wants a dog as badly as Bucky wants a cat, but they can’t afford both and neither wants to be the one to claim their limited funds for just one. 

Bucky knows it’s just a matter of time until they can adopt their dream pets- but when Clint starts his part-time receptionist gig at the no-kill shelter a couple of blocks away from their apartment, Bucky finds he can’t even step a foot inside lest he cave completely. Clint, he thinks, is far more disciplined than anyone gives him credit for. Bucky can’t fathom how he manages to restrain himself from adopting every puppy that comes through the shelter doors. 

Bucky’s longing comes to a head one day when he’s walking home from the bus stop, headphones firmly over his ears. Worn out from the day and fully immersed in the music pounding from his headphones, Bucky almost misses the scuffling in the alley adjacent to his and Clint’s apartment. He tugs the headphones from his ears, letting them dangle from his neck, and turns into the alley to investigate. Rending rhythm guitars sound tinnily from somewhere around Bucky’s collar bones as he steps cautiously towards the dumpsters at the end of the alley. He startles as a yowl tears through air and a rangy ginger cat pelts down the alley, barely pausing to hiss furiously in Bucky’s general direction as it flees.

At first, Bucky assumes that’s the end of it, but then he hears it: a faint mewl, heartbreakingly desolate. It pierces through him and Bucky’s feet carry him of their own accord closer to the trash cans lining the end of the alleyway. He follows the sound until he spots the feeble twitch of a matted gray tail behind one of the cans. Heart sinking, he tugs the trash can away slowly. A thin and disheveled long-haired tabby is revealed, a litter of alarmingly quiet tiny kittens huddled against her. 

Bucky can’t hold in his gasp of distress and he reaches out instinctively towards them, but draws back quickly at the mother’s exhausted but fierce hiss. She’s battered and patched with blood, clearly having just fought her heart out; presumably, to save her kittens. Bucky’s heart breaks into an infinite number of pieces when he spies one deathly still, dirtied white bundle of fur tucked under her paw. 

“Oh no, sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” Bucky says, voice cracking at the edges. He croons gently, crouching at an angle and removing his backpack in an effort to look smaller and less threatening. “You did your best, darlin’, I promise.”

It takes him the better part of half an hour, but he coaxes her into some degree of trust with gentle words, treats, and careful cap-fulls of water from the bottle he always carries. He strips off his flannel shirt and tucks it around the lot of them, empties his entire bag, then dumps the last treats deep into its largest pocket. He crosses the alley and sits on the damp ground, waiting and watching. Clearly at the end of her limits, the mother cat eventually deems the promise of free food too good to pass up in her weakened state and carts each of her kittens into the bag, curling around them protectively as she eats. 

Feeling positively monstrous, Bucky edges closer, then bolts to clamp the edges of the backpack closed with his knees. He zips it awkwardly, fettered by his lacking hand, taking a few furious swipes from her sharp claws in the process. Her wails of betrayal tear at Bucky’s heart as he gently levers the bag into a horizontal position. Wasting no time, Bucky sets off for the no-kill shelter at a quicktime march, holding the bag gingerly in front of himself. He ignores the stares of passerby, utterly focused on his task. When he arrives, Clint nearly leaps over the front desk in his concern, staring in alarm at Bucky’s bleeding arm. 

“Bucky, what the hell-” 

“They need help,” says Bucky, tears burning at his eyes and threatening to spill. He knows he looks unhinged, damp from the alley and bloodied, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Clint, you have to help them.”

The bag rustles then and a weak mewl echoes from its vinyl folds. To his credit, Clint doesn’t hesitate further, taking Bucky by the shoulders and escorting him into an empty examining room. He sits Bucky into the room’s sole chair, a dented plastic shell with wobbly legs, and presses a quick kiss to his temple. 

“You did great, sweetheart. Just hold onto them for me while I get Dr. Banner, okay?”

Bucky nods woodenly and clutches the bag closer to his chest, balancing it awkwardly on his lap. Clint careens out of the room and Bucky distantly registers his boyfriend’s rumbling voice down the hallway. A curly-haired man with a kind face and soft brown eyes enters the room minutes later. 

“Bucky?” he says. “I’m Dr. Banner. Can you tell me, best you can, what I’ll be dealing with when we open the bag?”

Dr. Banner is quiet, but radiates calm assurance and Bucky practically wilts with relief. After a brief, tearful description of events from Bucky, Dr. Banner reaches out and clasps Bucky’s shoulder gently. He looks almost… proud? Bucky feels a blush work its way across his cheeks. A rapping sound draws Bucky’s gaze to the doorway. Clint is standing there, looking at Bucky with concern and no little pride himself. Uncomfortable with so much attention, Bucky shifts the bag in his lap carefully and looks back at Dr. Banner.

“Can you help them?” he asks.

“We’re going to do everything we can, I promise,” Dr. Banner says, a reassuring smile creasing the corners of his sad eyes.

\--


	5. May 1999

Bucky enters the apartment and is knocked back by the overwhelming scent of… butter? The scent should be welcome, but it’s tinged with an acrid tang that clings to the back of his throat and makes him gag reflexively. Bucky reaches for the door frame for support and tucks his face into the crook of his arm in pure self-preservation.

“What-” Bucky says to himself, then his brain recovers from the sensory shock. “Oh, oh babe, no. Not again.”

He looks up and sure enough, a tendril of smoke wafts above his head, through the open front door, and into the free air. Steeling himself against the worst, Bucky enters the apartment. When he enters the galley kitchen just off the entryway, his worst fears are confirmed. Clint is standing in front of the stove, hands on his narrow hips, looking down at a tray of- well, Bucky isn't entirely sure what the flattened, blackened discs are supposed to be. Clint’s utterly dejected stance and the smoke still lingering heavily in the air lead Bucky to conclude that no matter what it was _supposed_ to be, the final product is certainly lacking.

“Babe?” he says, carefully.

His boyfriend turns jerkily and Bucky is both heartbroken and amused to take in his current state. Clint’s frilly purple apron is covered in flour, oily patches, and a new scorch mark across the chest. His face was clearly not spared in the ordeal; a fine dusting of flour nearly obscured Clint’s freckles and his blue eyes were bloodshot from the stinging smoke.

“Hey, Bucky!” Cint says, pinning a half-hearted grin on. “I uh, kinda wrecked the kitchen, sorry. I didn’t think you’d be home this soon.”

Bucky shakes his head slowly, stepping forward to run his hand gently down Clint’s side. “I’m not early, Clint. You were just really focused,” he says, trying to infuse as much warm fondness into his voice as possible. “I don’t have my internship on Fridays anymore, remember?”

“Aw man, figures,” Clint says with a groan, tipping his head up to the ceiling in frustration. “I couldn’t even get that part right.”

Bucky runs his hand up Clint’s bicep and squeezes it firmly, fully preparing to tell his boyfriend to stop being so damn hard on himself when said boyfriend hisses out a pained sound. He jerks away instinctively, all thoughts of soothing Clint’s bruised pride flying out the window at the sound.

“What happened?” he asks, stepping back to scan Clint’s taller frame more closely.

  
The words have just left his mouth when his gaze lands on a long line of angry red crossing Clint’s left bicep. Bucky feels a faint crooning sound escape him and he reaches towards the burn instinctively. He manages to stop just shy of actually touching the tender skin.

“Oh, yeah. I wasn’t paying attention and knocked a tray into my arm,” Clint says with a dismissive shrug. “It’s no big deal.”

“Did you put anything on it at least?”

Clint cants his gaze away guiltily, which is confirmation enough for Bucky.

“Well that changes right now,” he says firmly, turning on one heel briskly to rummage under the kitchen sink for their first aid kit. It had been a housewarming gift from Kate along with the frilly purple apron. Both got regular use. Clint makes an unimpressed face at Bucky’s insistence that proper medical care be administered regardless of the scale of the wound, but Bucky will not be deterred.

“You know the drill, babe,” Bucky says, wagging the kit. “No stitches means no kisses.”

“It’s not even that serious,” Clint returns, but dutifully leans against the kitchen counter and holds his arm up for Bucky’s inspection.

It’s a marked improvement from when Clint and he first got together. Despite himself, Bucky feels a fond smile tug at his mouth, ruining his trademark dry stoicism. He smooths burn cream onto Clint’s arm and tapes a square of gauze over it with gentle fingers, wrapping it securely with a length of puppy-themed waterproof bandage. Bucky tamps down the adhesive end with a flourish and cocks his head until he can meet Clint’s exasperated face.

“Thank you,” says Bucky. He brushes his lips against the gaudy bandage then stretches up on his tiptoes to press a soft kiss to Clint’s flour-dusted cheek. “You wanna tell me what this was all about?”

“I asked Sam and Riley for their cookie recipe. I wanted to do something nice for you,” Clint says and cuts his gaze away, embarrassed, a flush spreading across the bridge of his nose. He looks simultaneously so uncomfortably chagrined and disappointed by his culinary disaster that Bucky can’t help but be moved.

He steps into Clint’s space, resting his forehead against the other man’s sternum. He rolls it against Clint’s messy apron with a helpless shake of his head, a warm spread of affection burning it’s way through his chest like a shot of whiskey. Clint makes a concerned grunt, arms automatically coming up to circle Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky winds his arm around Clint’s narrow waist and squeezes tightly.

“You are,” he says in a muffled mumble against that broad chest, “the absolute best, _worst_ baker.”

Clint sighs heavily, “Totally awful, yeah.”

Bucky stretches up to kiss him again, on the lips this time, then pulls away enough to meet Clint’s eyes. “I can’t wait to try these terrible cookies,” he says, giving his brows a wiggle just to see Clint roll his eyes.

They manage to get down half of a cookie each, choking around their laughter and groans of absolute disgust. Once they’ve pulled themselves into some semblance of order, Bucky sends Clint off to the bathroom for a shower. He cleans the kitchen to the familiar sound of Clint humming off-key while the old pipes groan, then orders a mountain of shawarma and shaabiyat for them both. After they’ve gorged themselves senseless, Bucky presses Clint against the sheets of their bed and kisses the taste of honey from his mouth until the other man is shivering and groaning beneath him. The man’s cookies might be inedible, but the look of soft awe on Clint’s face when he comes, gasping and arching into Bucky’s hand is absolutely delicious.

Bucky doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough.

\--


	6. June 1999

“Hey, Bucky!” shouts Kate. She spins around behind the receptionist desk, eying him thoughtfully. “I’d ask how you are, but you look pretty beat, man.”

She’s not wrong. Bucky has been burning the candle at both ends for weeks now between classes, his own internship, and the extra hours he’s been spending here at the shelter. But Bucky is aware that he’d saddled the already underfunded, short-staffed shelter with five more mouths to feed. Dr. Banner had already tended to Diana pro-bono and Bucky was incredibly grateful.

“Direct as always, Katie Kate,” says Bucky. Kate’s eyes narrow at him but she’s clearly fighting a grin. She pretends to hate the nickname; Bucky knows better.

“Just callin’ it like I see it, Buckster.”

“I’d blame Chavez, but I’m pretty sure this is all you.”

Kate throws her head back and cackles; the messy bun of dark hair atop her head at serious risk of structural failure. “Is this where I throw in a line about my girlfriend rubbing off on me?” she asks with a positively feral gleam in her eyes.

Bucky closes his eyes and prays for strength. “You are _sixteen_ ,” he says for what has to be the hundredth time. “I don’t need that kind of mental image on my conscience, please and thank you.”

“Kate, quit terrorizing Bucky and call Mr. Davidson back about his appointment shift.”

Bucky’s eyes fly open at the sound of Dr. Banner’s amused but firm voice. He turns to see the older man standing in the doorway that leads to the examining rooms. Clint is snickering behind Dr. Banner, looming over the smaller man’s narrow shoulders.

“Hey Doc, how are the kids today?” Bucky asks, casually signing a quick _hey, dumbass_ to his decidedly unhelpful boyfriend in greeting. Clint blows him a kiss in return, which Bucky manfully ignores in lieu of giving Dr. Banner his full focus.

“The kids are fine.”

“But...” Clint says, trailing off into uncertainty. Bucky’s stomach plummets.

“But, what? Why is there a but- Clint!”

“Sorry, sorry- the kittens are _fine_ , jeez babe,” Clint says, hands up defensively as he shuffles more firmly behind Dr. Banner. “The but is because, well, it’s just that-”

“Clint is afraid to tell you that since the kittens are doing so well, they’re ready to be adopted,” Dr. Banner says.

Bucky rocks back on his heels. “Oh.”

“I can’t say enough how much I’ve appreciated your help these past five weeks. Especially with all of your other responsibilities,” Dr. Banner says, reaching out to clasp Bucky’s right shoulder and squeeze it gently. It’s an unexpected breach of the older man’s normally impregnable personal bubble; the uncharacteristic gesture especially moving. “Thank you, Bucky.”

“How long until-”

“There has been interest for a while now,” Clint says, careful and hesitant. “You can still see them until the day they leave…” _But maybe that will just be harder for you_ is the clearly unspoken caution.

Blinking back the sudden burn of tears in his eyes, Bucky clears his throat roughly. “No, yeah,” he says nonsensically. “Better not to draw it out. Can I see them to say goodbye, though?”

“Of course!” Dr Banner says warmly. “Kate, go ahead and flip the sign. We’re done with appointments for the day and it’s only half an hour till closing.”

Kate whoops softly and flips the sign with a flourish, “Kitten tiiiime!”

The four of them head for the back of the clinic to the converted storage closet that Clint has affectionately termed ‘the nursery’. It was the one room in the clinic that had minimal exposure to other animals, whose scents would only further distress poor Diana and her babies. It’s a short walk to the storage closet, but each step Bucky takes feels leaden. He hadn’t expected to feel a grief this sharp at the news the kittens would be leaving. The others file through the storage closet door, but Bucky stops at the threshold; his feet just don’t want to carry him any further.

Bucky thinks of the way the kittens fit so snugly and secure in the span of his cupped palm. Thinks of their tiny scrunched noses, squinty heavy-lidded eyes, and drooping ears. In caring for them, he had felt an unreserved gentleness. Bucky had feared that he was no longer capable of that degree of softness. Several days into dropper feeding, he'd been assured that fear was unfounded.

A faint, warm pressure at the base of his spine urges him forward gently.

“I’ve got you,” Clint murmurs.

Bucky walks into the makeshift nursery with leaden feet with Clint a warm, steadying presence at his side. The moment his feet cross the threshold a disjointed cacophony of shrieking honks fill the air. He jolts backward into Clint’s broad chest and swears, watching in shock as colorful paper rains down across his field of vision.

“What?” Bucky says, dumbstruck and off-kilter.

“Happy Adoption Day!” Kate struggles to shout around the cheap party horn clenched between her teeth. She pelts Bucky with two more fistfuls of confetti and beams. Chavez is standing next to Kate looking as easily confident as ever, twirling her own party horn with a tiny smirk.

“Pretty self-explanatory, man,” Chavez says.

“That’s really sweet, guys- but there’s no way we can afford to have a pet right now,” Bucky replies, ignoring the pang of longing that stabs through him.

“Ah, about that,” Dr. Banner says. “Kate put out a short piece in the local ‘zine about the litter in hopes of getting adoptions lined up.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky replies, confused. “I gave her the greenlight to take some pictures of me doing dropper feedings to put in there.”

“Dude, the phone was ringing _off the hook_. For weeks,” Kate says with a smug gleam in her eyes. Chavez’s own eyes nearly roll out her head in response to Kate’s tone, but she ruffles her girlfriend’s hair fondly.

Clint’s hands clasp Bucky’s shoulders and squeeze lightly. “Babe, it wasn’t just adoption requests- people wanted to help _you_ adopt.”

“Oh.”

“So I put _another_ piece in the ‘zine a few weeks ago,” Kate continues. “And the donations just started pouring in, man. People really wanted to help.”

“For transparency reasons, the money was put into a fund here at the clinic,” Dr. Banner says, almost apologetically. “But what that means is I can give you discounted supplies like flea treatment, food, litter, and even toys. Your kitten will have a year of pet insurance and what’s left in the fund should cover any surprise issues.”

Bucky desperately blinks back the tears filling his eyes. He turns in Clint’s hold and presses his forehead against the other man’s chest. Clint’s long arms slide around him, pulling tight.

“I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want to get your hopes up if it fell through,” Clint says, his voice a pleasant rumble against Bucky’s skin. “Then Kate wanted to surprise you and well. Here we are.”

“You jerk,” Bucky says, squeezing the words out around what feels like a fist-sized lump in his throat. “You absolute dick.”

“I’m the worst, yeah,” Clint says agreeably. He kisses the top of Bucky’s head.

“Worst boyfriend ever.”

“Love you, too, pumpkin.”

The familiar _click-whrr_ of a camera drags Bucky’s attention back to their friends and he groans. “Kate, do you _have_ to document this?” Bucky asks, feigning disgust.

“Well, not gonna lie, donors did ask for a photo of the reveal if you were willing to share it,” Kate says, surprisingly contrite. “But if you say no, it’s no big deal! These will just be for you.”

Clint gives Bucky another gentle squeeze. “You gonna hug me all day or go pick out a kitten, babe?”

Bucky pulls back enough to brush a kiss against his boyfriend’s chin. “Oh, you know which is my priority,” he says with a grin.

“And so the process of my replacement begins,” Clint replies mournfully, but his eyes are crinkled with fondness. He turns Bucky around carefully. “Go on then.”

In truth, Bucky already knows in his heart which kitten he will pick. Still, he crosses the room dutifully, wipes the tear tracks from his face with one sleeve, and peers into the kitten pen. A chorus of excited mewls greets him and Bucky’s chest floods with fondness at the sound. It will be so hard to say goodbye to most of them, but he knows it’s for the best. He reaches down to pluck them to rest between his arm and torso one at a time, stroking their downy fur as he croons out a goodbye.

Finally, there is just one kitten left- the bundle of white fur that Bucky had feared was a lost cause that cold, wet night. He had eventually recuperated, his tiny frame slowly but surely filling out over weeks of careful feeding. As Bucky holds the kitten, he knows that this fluffy white cloud with bright blue eyes and a curious disposition could only ever be his first choice.

“I want this one.”

Bucky turns to find Clint watching him with warm, soft eyes. The kitten mews indignantly, wriggles free of Bucky’s hold, and scampers to settle atop his right shoulder. His next mew is directly into Bucky’s right ear. Against all logic, Bucky finds the digging of his needle-like claws and piercing cries perfectly charming. He beams in delight.

The _click-whrr_ of Kate’s camera reminds him their friends are still present and Bucky turns to scowl at her. She takes two more photos with unrepentant joy. An unconcerned Chavez just shrugs at Bucky. Dr. Banner coughs a laugh into one hand despite himself. In contrast, Clint practically cackles his glee, lanky body doubled and shaking.

“Kinda figured he might be the one,” he says, crossing the room to peck Bucky on the cheek and scritch behind the kitten’s ear affectionately. “What are you gonna call, ‘im?”

Bucky closes his eyes for a moment, searching for a name to attach to the same peaceful feeling that caring for the kitten and his littermates gave him. His mind flinches away from the ugly sweep of the endless fields of his hometown, from the cramped and dim press of his family’s trailer walls, from the clatter of machine gun fire-

“Babe?” Clint says, careful but unwavering. Solid.

Bucky opens his eyes and the familiar blue of Clint’s gaze meets his own. Turning his head slightly to the right, Bucky meets a similar vivid hue; the kitten mews at him curiously. The color reminds him of the crystalline, breathless perfection of the alpine skyline- lush green broken only by swathes of the whitest snow and crowned with an endless blue.

“Alpine,” Bucky says. “His name is Alpine.”

\--


	7. July 1999

The air feels thick and sticky like molasses- not just against his tongue, but on his skin and in his lungs. The tiny fan next to him chugs away doggedly. Sadly, it failed to do much more than spread the hot, humid summer air in a slick and, ultimately unsatisfying, slide across Bucky’s bare chest. He taps the fingers of his hand idly against the ceramic tile under him, relishing its faint chill.

"So how does it feel to be a free man?" 

Bucky turns to squint at his boyfriend in mock assessment. "You mean the exam or are you trying to tell me somethin' here?" Clint snorts and raises one brow in lieu of a verbal response. Yeah, Bucky figured he wouldn't take such obvious bait. "I feel... good. Light? Yeah, definitely light. No matter how it went, it's out of my hands now."

Clint grabs Bucky's hand with sweat-sticky fingers and places a kiss in the center of his palm. "Good," he says emphatically. 

The radio on the counter above them sputters and crackles for a moment before clearing once more.

“ _-listening to 104.9, The River… commercial free for the top of the hour, every hour. This next track peaked at No. 4 on the_ Billboard _Top 100 back in 1959. The band behind the sound was among the first ten artists to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1986-_ ”

“Ooh, ooh- turn it up, babe!” Clint says and flaps an arm excitedly, smacking Bucky’s shoulder in the process.

“-holding the record for the most Top 100 singles by any duo, this is The Everly Brothers with ‘Til I Kissed You.”

Bucky rolls towards the radio with a grunt, wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant sound and feel of his sweaty skin peeling away from the kitchen floor. “Alright, alright, I got it- take a chill pill, you spaz,” Bucky says, turning the knob. He rolls back into position, his bare shoulder just touching Clint’s, as the opening chords of the song jangle across the airwaves and fills their tiny kitchenette.

Clint turns his head to face him. The fine skin around his blue eyes crinkles with mischief as he sings, a surprisingly on-key, rendition of the chorus. The song is only vaguely familiar to Bucky, but Clint- Clint sings every word and taps out the rhythm with his bare feet. His voice and the softly padded thumps are in perfect harmony with the radio.

“I didn’t know you were such a big fan of the Everlys,” Bucky says, bemused and charmed despite himself.

“Well, ‘m from Iowa- Everly fanhood is practically required from birth, you uncultured Hoosier,” Clint says with a grin. He turns onto his hip, bracing his body up with one elbow, and looks down at Bucky with appreciative eyes. Bucky swallows, shifting under the surprising wave of shyness that ripples across his skin- he feels a flush spreading from his sternum to his cheekbones. Clint’s gaze softens and Bucky swallows, hard.

He starts to speak, but feels the words fall away when the other man reaches out and tucks a stray, sweaty lock of hair from Bucky’s forehead with gentle fingers. He shivers despite the oppressive heat and closes his eyes for a brief respite from the overwhelming sight of Clint’s naked affection.

When Clint’s lips press softly against his forehead, Bucky inhales- a sharp gasp that is quickly followed by a strangled, aborted groan as Clint trails his mouth to the tender skin behind Bucky’s ear. He hums faintly at first, then he’s singing the chorus- his raspy, low tenor sends another shiver down Bucky’s spine and he presses the tips of his fingers into the tile desperately. A throb of want pulses through his groin and Bucky feels his thighs part reflexively.

The moment is simultaneously so achingly tender and blindingly erotic that Bucky feels completely off-kilter. His heart pounds wildly in his chest as Clint continues to murmur the chorus into Bucky’s skin- peppering his face with kisses even as his free hand starts to stroke across Bucky’s chest. When Clint’s touch ghosts across his nipple, Bucky’s eyes fly open again and he arches up and away from the tile.

Time passes by in a creeping haze of soft kisses and gentle caresses. It feels like a moment to be encapsulated and preserved like a delicate moth in amber. The lush wash of sensory input pins Bucky down- the buzz of the radio, the clattering echoes from the alley below, and the sonorous purrs of Alpine from the next room.

Eventually, the slick noises of Clint’s mouth on his cock join the tapestry of sounds filling their little kitchenette. They’re quickly joined by Bucky’s staccato pants, his throaty encouragements, his shattered groan that echoes off the tiles when he comes. He claws at Clint’s shoulders until the man allows himself to be dragged up, up- his long frame settles over Bucky’s, its solidity tempering the fine tremors coursing up and down Bucky’s numb limbs.

“Jesus, baby, you’re so-” Clint groans. He keeps his hips angled slightly away, but his cock still presses, hot and aching, against Bucky’s hip. “The _sounds_ you make, Bucky.”

“Says the secret crooner,” Bucky mutters, stretching up to kiss Clint’s red, slick mouth. He feels the sharp sting of satisfaction pulse through him at Clint’s faint whine. Bucky reaches down to grip Clint’s ass, squeezing rhythmically. “Can’t believe you- that was the most goddamn romantic thing that’s ever happened to me, you dick,” Bucky tempers the harshness of his words with a tone saturated in affection.

Clint chuckles smugly, then chokes on a cry when Bucky presses two fingers against the fabric of his briefs, pushing between his cheeks.

“Gonna fuck you,” he says, biting lightly at the flare of Clint’s jaw.

“Bucky, please-” Clint grinds out, low and desperate. His arms start to tremble.

Bucky hooks a leg around Clint and reaches to cup the back of his head. He flips them neatly, cushioning Clint’s skull from the tile with his hand. Clint blinks up at him, blue eyes fogged with confusion.

“Wha-”

“My dick’s too far away. Later,” Bucky explains breathlessly and kisses him gently. “Briefs off, sweetheart.”

\--

Bucky rides Clint hard but slow, chasing the encore of his own pleasure leisurely. Clint’s cock isn’t as long as his height might indicate, but he’s _thick_. Taking him this way is always a bit of a challenge at first, so Bucky reaches down to part his folds with his fingers. He smiles appreciatively when Clint reaches up to grip Bucky’s hips, steadying him. He presses his fingers tightly around the girth of Clint’s cock as a reward.

“So good to me, sweetheart,” he says, watching intently as Clint’s eyes flutter shut on a groan at the praise.

There’s a tug low in Bucky’s belly at the sight that has him picking up the pace. He braces his arm on Clint’s sternum and bounces, relishing the feel of that thick cock filling him to the limit. Bucky is so focused on keeping his unrelenting pace that he misses Clint reaching with one hand to rub his knuckles against the underside of Bucky’s cock.

Bucky lets out a guttural shout, head hanging low, “Fuck, fuck-”

Below him, Clint is clenching his jaw tightly, clearly struggling not to come as Bucky tightens around him at the unexpected touch. Affection swells through Bucky and he presses closer, taking Clint deeper as he grinds his cock relentlessly against Clint’s knuckles. He comes again in seconds, clamping down on Clint’s cock with a whine.

“I can’t- need,” Bucky stutters out. “Need you to-”

Clint lets out a sound of pure relief and drives his hips up again and again, fucking Bucky through his orgasm and chasing his own. Bucky just braces himself harder against Clint’s chest and holds on, mouth parted on a gasp at each thrust. He breathes out a strangled sob when the residual ripples of pleasure build into a series of waves that topple him down onto Clint’s chest as he comes, again. He’s so wet now that he’s dripping with it, can feel it sliding down to coat them both. Clint jerks, his whole body surging up and against Bucky helplessly as he finally comes.

\--

That evening, Bucky comes to by increments, each sense sending a burst of data that his bleary mind attempts to assemble into a cohesive map of his surroundings. _Sour-musky-detergent_ meets _stale-salty_ and dim-moonlight-electronic-glow. But the most overwhelming sensory update by far is _heavy-sticky- **hot**_.

“Hrgh,” Bucky groans. He is positively stifling. “God, babe… not again.”

He cranes his neck painfully to peer at the source of the _heavy-sticky- **hot**_ sensation. Clint has, once again, wrapped his long limbs around Bucky like some sort of octopus; his shaggy blond head tucked under Bucky’s chin. Torn between irritation and affection, Bucky drops his head back onto the pillow and stares up at the ceiling blearily. He lands somewhere in the middle on fond exasperation.

Clint lets loose a sound that can only be described as a ‘snuffle’ and turns his face further into the crook of Bucky’s neck. The answering clench in Bucky’s heart at the sound distracts him from the utter revulsion that wells up at the sensation of sweat pooling on his chest. That clench stays Bucky’s thought to extricate himself…

For approximately five minutes.

“Okay, okay,” Bucky whispers nonsensically as he peels his sweaty limbs from Clint’s. “Can’t take it anymore. How are you this _hot_?”

The man atop him lets loose a low, forlorn sound at Bucky’s extrication attempts and presses closer. Bucky tamps down a howl of frustration. He is, by and large, a man who doesn’t get terribly worked up over inconveniences, but interrupted sleep is an absolute exception to that calm. He turns to look at the red glow of the digital clock at their bedside, heart sinking as he reads 0330. If Bucky doesn’t fall back into sleep soon, he might as well get up.

He goes with the band-aid approach; a quick and merciless removal. He pulls and shoves, hardening his heart towards Clint’s sleepy murmurs of protest. Eventually, Bucky manages to slither his way from underneath the other man. He rolls off the bed and onto his feet in a move that’s just shy of smooth, grabs a throw blanket from the pile of neglected (but clean) linens in the corner, and makes for the couch.

The couch is no beauty, but it’s soft and big enough to accommodate Bucky’s modest height and muscular frame. He shoves his nose into the space between the armrest and the back; the cream corduroy velvety against his skin. In minutes, his breaths begin to even and he slips gratefully into the heavy void of sleep that rises to swallow the last of his fading awareness.

This time, he comes to much more pleasantly. Bucky is warm, but not overheated; his skin free of tacky half-dried sweat. The nutty, smokey scent of freshly brewed coffee registers, accompanied by lightly sweet and buttery notes Bucky immediately associates with fresh pancakes. He pries his eyes open to find that Clint has closed the curtains tightly so that only a faint glow of early morning light creeps from beneath their folds. The muted, discordant noises from the kitchen sharpen into clarity as he identifies them: the low sizzle of batter on a hot pan, the gentle thwack-scrape of a spatula, Clint’s rumbling bass humming as he pours and flips, pours and flips.

Bucky wriggles under the soft throw, a pleasant warmth spreading from deep within his chest to the tips of his fingers and toes.

Is this contentment? He thinks it must be.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:  
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**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Transbucky for graciously accepting my claim and letting me write for your lovely art. 
> 
> MRBB Art, Domestic Days, Transbucks: https://transbucks.tumblr.com/private/643298063538110464/tumblr_eMnjx9KOB1HSSTetm


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